


Drowning

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Brotherly Affection, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Cocaine, Daddy Holmes - Freeform, Daddy Issues, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Growing Up, Holmes Brothers, Horny Teenagers, Kid Moriarty, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Late Night Conversations, Lots of Drugs, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Past Relationship(s), Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smoking, Smut, Snapshots, Teen Angst, Teen Mycroft, Teen Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, mummy holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has only ever been truly happy once - and he can hardly remember that now. Jim Moriarty has never fitted in. Mistreated by the world, he quickly learns that violence and skill are the only things that will make people stop and listen. What will happen when the pair meet at boarding school? And will Mycroft ever manage to keep himself out of it?





	1. Four

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know I really shouldn't be adding works when I still have ones to finish but...this idea just hasn't left me alone. I've also been working on it for quite some time now so I figured I'd finally start posting in the hope of getting some feedback.  
> One thing, I would say my version of Sherlock's parents does not conform to canon at all, partly due to my personal opinion and for the means of the story.  
> This is also quite angsty...you have been warned!  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock and Mycroft don’t become  _ proper  _ friends until Sherlock is four.

One afternoon, the younger Holmes finds himself down at the very bottom of the garden, in a small backyard on the edge of the estate, somewhere he knows he  _ shouldn’t  _ be.

Mummy and Daddy are nowhere to be seen.

There’s all sorts of fun things hidden down here. Bits of old rubbish, broken glass, rotten tyres and various wood chippings from where the caretakers do the gardening. It’s all very exciting. He’s never been this far away from the house on his own before. After all, the Holmes estate is quite a vast place for a four-year-old to explore.

He should go back.

But, just as he turns he spots a small overgrown pond that’s lying behind an eerie looking oak tree. He runs across and leans over the ivy-covered edge. He can see his reflection gleaming back at him in the water, a mop of shiny black curls and a rounded pale face. He  _ will  _ go back in a second. He just wants to see the fish he’s heard so much about, with their shining bright colours and shimmering bodies, he just wants to touch them, to feel their slimy scales against his skin, he just wants to-

He topples over and falls headfirst into the water.

It’s deep. Far deeper than he expected, and as cold as ice. His jeans and burgundy woollen jumper act like a sponge and soak up the water instantly. They start to drag him down and suddenly he  _ panics _ , because he hasn’t yet learned to swim. There isn’t time to call out. Barely even time to react. He gasps for air, once, twice, and then his head gets pulled under the water.

Arms and legs failing him, he starts to  _ s i n k… _

Mycroft is eleven. Which is practically an adult, he thinks, as he rushes down the gravel path towards the end of the garden. He can handle this. Because it was  _ he  _ who noticed when Sherlock disappeared, not anyone else. And when he tried so desperately to get Mummy and Daddy’s attention, they didn’t seem interested. Like always, Mummy was on the phone and Daddy was in his office.

In fact, they both told him to  _ go away. _

But luckily Mycroft’s smart. Smarter than other children anyway. He saw the look on Sherlock’s face when he disappeared around the corner, that mischievous twitch of lips, that sly grin. And it’s odd really - hard to explain - because he can just feel it.  _ Feel  _ it in his stomach when something is about to go horribly wrong. 

Just like it is now.

He pushes through the stupid little wooden gate at the end of the garden and finds himself out in the walled backyard. It’s littered with junk, and half concealed by a heavy mist that has rolled off the hills and begun to seep through the towering estate walls. He blinks rapidly. It makes things just a little bit difficult to see.

He calls Sherlock’s name, once, twice…

Nothing.

He runs forward and spots the old oak tree, its branches forming strange ghost-like figures in the mist. It’s scary, bordering on frightening actually, maybe Sherlock isn’t here, maybe he should go back-

There’s a noise. A sort of strangled gurgling sound. He recognises it instantly.

“Sherlock!?”

There’s no reply.

He dashes forward and finally catches sight of the disused pond. The world stops for a second as the jigsaw pieces slot together in his mind and he  _ realises _ , and then all of a sudden time starts to move  _ very  _ quickly. The adrenaline involved is what shocks him the most. He’s never felt power like he does now, grasping and fumbling across the water for Sherlock’s arms. There’s simply no time to think, and he practically throws himself in the pond too, his thighs and hips suffering terrible scratches as he reaches down deep in the water for Sherlock’s waist and uses all the strength he can physically muster to pull him out.

They end up in a soaking heap on the floor. With Mycroft lying on his back and panting hard. His whole body is aching from fatigue and his hands are actually  _ bleeding  _ from where they got scratched on some brambles. Sherlock lies in a crumpled mess on top of him, still gasping frantically for breath. After a moment his gasps turns to sobs, and then to screams, and soon he begins to wail uncontrollably. A stream of hot tears pouring incessantly down his cheeks.  

Mycroft doesn’t really know what to say.

“It’s…it’s alright.” He wraps a nervous arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, and, slowly but steadily, the cries start to soften.

“Look,” Mycroft sits up on his elbows and wipes some of the blood from his hands on the grass. He holds them up for Sherlock to see. “It’s fine now, it’s all gone.”

He pulls Sherlock’s fringe up from his forehead and assess his face, which is pink with exhaustion but otherwise fine, before checking his hands and knees quickly too. “And you’re alright as well.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe a tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “So no more crying, ok? We’ll go and get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock sniffs and nods silently.

They traipse back up to the house, but when they pass through the kitchen Mummy barely bothers to look up from her phone. She doesn’t even ask why the pair of them are dripping wet, or perhaps it’s that she doesn’t notice. Instead, she just scowls and turns away before muttering something bad-tempered about her work.

So, it ends up being Mycroft who takes Sherlock upstairs and roots through the cupboards until he finds them some dry clothes. It’s Mycroft who leads Sherlock into the bathroom, calms him, soothes him, dries his hair with a towel and makes him laugh with one of his silly pirate jokes. It’s Mycroft who settles them down on the sofa with Sherlock’s favourite cartoons and reads to him until his eyes start to go all droopy and his breathing softens. And it’s Mycroft who sighs softly, hesitates for a moment, before picking Sherlock up and carrying him gently to bed. 

In fact, it was Mycroft who  _ saved  _ him that day. Sherlock will never forget that.

The pair become inseparable from that moment onwards. Mycroft teaches Sherlock how to read properly, how to write. He takes him out into the back garden and tells him all about science, shows him how to collect data and properly construct experiments. They spend _hours_ studying all kinds of insects, documenting habitats. And when it gets dark and they’re sent to bed, Mycroft sneaks up into Sherlock’s room and reads him biology books until he drifts to sleep. But the best times are in the summer holidays, when they spend long days and torch-lit nights up in the woods behind the estate with Redbeard. They do absolutely everything, from making dens to having mud fights, and trekking miles and miles just so they can name all the different types of fungus.

Sherlock loves it. Every second. Every minute. And as they make their way back up to the house every day, he can’t help but look up to Mycroft with shining eyes. He’s the coolest big brother in the whole world, that’s for sure.

If only he’d known then that it wouldn’t last.

 

***

 

 

Jim is five when his father first hits him.

He’s had multiple injuries before. In fact, all he’s ever known has been a sequence of cuts and bruises.

But this time it’s different. This time he has to go to hospital.

He sits quietly at a small table in the corner of the reception room and fills in a colouring book about dragons. A woman with short blonde hair and a navy blue uniform smiles sweetly at him from behind her desk. Jim doesn’t smile back. It’s not often people smile at him.

He’s not entirely sure how to react.

Father is standing a couple of meters away, lying to another nurse about how Jim tripped and fell down the stairs. Falling so hard that when he reached the bottom his head smacked the floor and he was knocked out cold.

The nurse just stares at him. Her lips are set in a hard, straight line. Perhaps she believes him, perhaps not.

They send Jim back home with father anyway.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Sherlock is eleven when he realises that Mycroft isn’t interested in him anymore.

One Christmas, Sherlock notices that the older Holmes’ bedroom door is often, and then always, shut. As the days go by Mycroft becomes less and less approachable. He starts to lock himself away, rarely makes an appearance around the house. Sometimes he doesn’t even come down for dinner. It’s confusing because, Mummy and Daddy don’t seem to notice how much Mycroft’s changing, but Sherlock does.

One day, he stops coming in to read Sherlock stories before he goes to bed.

One day, when Sherlock bursts into kitchen with messy clothes, a big grin, and a stick for Redbeard, Mycroft rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the cup of earl grey tea he’s making. He says, in a tired voice, that he’s too busy to go up to the woods. Too busy to play silly, childish games. He says that he’s  _ bored _ of it.

Sherlock doesn’t understand.

The next week, Mycroft leaves the house to see ‘ _ some friends’ _ , without taking Sherlock with him. Sherlock stands placidly at the window and watches helplessly as the car rolls out of the driveway - rattling loudly on the gravel. He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he continues to watch the empty space where the car used to be, but he does. And, slowly but surely, he feels an unfamiliar weight begin to drop down on him, a new, empty, hollow, sort of feeling that starts to cling to his chest.

It’s sort of like being suffocated. Like  _sinking_ , drowning.  A feeling he’s felt once before.

But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t  _ stop  _ looking at the empty space. Instead he finds himself just standing there, motionless, letting the minutes tick by.

The experience is horrid yet surpirsing. Sadness has never felt like this before. It’s not a physical pain, or a feeling mixed with the sensation of annoyance or confusion. It’s something else. Deadly but in a quiet way. Silent yet all-consuming.

Fatal.

He wants to leave now, retreat back to the safety of his room, but finds he doesn't have it within him to do so. Desperation is swallowing him up from the inside. Hurting so much, that rather than pain he’s simply left feeling numb and vacant. He can’t acknowledge the wet tear sliding down his cheek anymore because he doesn’t register it. He's never felt so hopeless.

Mycroft, the  _ only  _ person who has ever understood him, is fading away. Vanishing more and more every day, disappearing into nothing but whispers and memories in Sherlock’s mind. He’s losing him.

He still doesn’t understand.

When Mycroft gets home later that evening, late and weary-eyed and stinking of something Sherlock doesn’t recognise, he doesn't even smile when they pass in the hallway.

Sherlock’s heart sinks, and the white emptiness begins to spread within him like a disease. 

It’s not fair. Mycroft promised that they’d always be friends and play games. He said that he’d  _ always _ look after him, ever since that day.

Sherlock’s not sure he’ll ever forgive him for breaking that promise.

 

***

 

 

Jim is eleven when he  _ understands. _

He learns that it’s not the late nights, the booze, or the drugs, that make his father the way he is.

All of that stuff doesn’t help, obviously. But it’s not the reason.

The reason, Jim discovers, is that it’s just  _ him _ . It’s just how he  _ is _ . He is a horrible,  _ nasty _ , piece of work. Jim can’t find the words to describe how much he  _ hates _ him. How much he hates  _ everything _ . He feels it tingling within every single fiber of his being. It’s there, every minute, of every day, until the feeling starts to become numb, like background noise, something that never leaves. Impossible to switch off.

His father’s name is Jason.

_ He’s _ the reason that Mum topped herself with pills when Jim was only three. He doesn’t really know what “topped herself” means, because he only heard it when Auntie Lou came round that one time and started speaking in hushed tones on the phone in the kitchen. But he thinks it means that she went away,  _ permanently _ , and he hates his father even more for that.

Every day is the same. They live in a grimy flat on the top floor of a tower block on the outskirts of London. Every morning, Jim wakes himself up at six and creeps past the slumbering body of his passed out father on the sofa before making his way through to the dingy kitchen. As silently as he can, he drags a chair across to the sink and reaches up to the cupboards. If he’s lucky, there’ll be some mouldy bread or some leftover chips, if not, he’ll be going hungry.

Often it’s the latter.

After, he tiptoes back to the bedroom and pulls on his dirty school uniform before rinsing his mouth and heading down the cluttered corridor to the door. The worst part about the tower block isn’t the litter, or the smell, or the graffiti, it’s the fact that the lift is permanently broken, and he has to walk the fifteen flights of stairs down to the street.

That’s not the worst bit though, in fact, it’s probably one of the best parts of the day, because it’s  _ not _ school. Right now  it’s the beginning of term and this year he’s moved up to a new secondary. A depressingly grey-walled comprehensive with a name that he struggles to pronounce.

He hates school too, because they always ask him  _ questions. _

Tired teachers with stacks of books and steamy glasses ignore everyone else but always try and smile at  _ him _ . His form tutor routinely takes a careful look at him when he enters the room before chewing nervously on her bottom lip and peering over her glasses. After the first week, she pulls him to one side and asks quietly if _ ‘everything is alright at home?’ _

On the second week, his science teacher hands him a letter. Jim struggles to read it so he folds it up carefully and chucks it in the bin on the way home. A couple of days later, the science teacher - Mr Maple - pulls him behind and glares at him angrily before demanding to know why he hasn’t bothered to bring the form for the class trip. He calls Jim lazy and disorganised. He says that Jim really needs to ‘ _ pull his socks up _ ’ if he’s going to survive big school. 

Jim doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to ‘ _ survive’  _ anything. He just wants to disappear. So when Mr Sweaty armpits has finished his speech, Jim glares back, spits on the floor and knocks over a stool before storming out of the classroom. 

Sometimes, violence is the only thing that actually shuts people up. It’s the only thing that ever  _ feels  _ good. 

On the third week, a smiley looking woman with blonde hair and lots of makeup takes him out of class and down to a special room that has lime green walls. She says she’s from ‘ _ welfare _ ’ and that she is ‘ _ just trying to help’, _ but Jim’s not sure if he believes her. He stares numbly at his thumbs while she leans across the desk and fires loaded questions in his direction. When she moves onto the topic of home, and more specifically what his parents are like, he decides rather hastily not to answer.

Father has always warned him not to do that. He said that if Jim ever said anything, then he would have a  _ ‘right thing coming for him’  _ when he got home.

That’s code for getting hurt. Jim knows that. So, as her kind eyes bore into his, he doesn’t say anything.

Nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments as I would love to know what you think.  
> I should also say that I am still working on my other stories, and I'm sorry in advance for sucking at updates. I'm really excited for the rest of this though, and I've written a great deal already, so it shouldn't be too long.


	2. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard, and the miracle that is Willam Abbleby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, I'm doing well at writing and updating this so far, aren't I? Although I must warn you I'm so incredibly busy I can't promise that it'll last. Anyway, I hope you like this, please don't be afraid to tell me what you think!

Sherlock is twelve when Redbeard dies.

It's so sudden, all of it. One minute they’re playing on the lawn in the garden, same as always, with Redbeard wagging his tail and barking cheerfully, circling Sherlock as he chases after a stick. The next, he’s panting heavily and staggering slightly as his eyes unexpectedly glass over. Sherlock’s stomach twists. He lets the stick fall from his fingers and bends down to his knees.

“Redbeard?” He asks in a slightly wobbly voice. “What's the matter, boy?”

The Irish setter slowly collapses himself down onto the grass. He whines softly before resting his chin on his paw, sides heaving.

“Redbeard?” Sherlock mats his fingers into the fluffy bit around Redbeard’s neck and checks his pulse. It's rapid. Unnaturally fast, and his skin feels colder than normal. “What’s wrong with you?”

Redbeard looks away and lowers his head down to the ground, an action that triggers a cold shiver to shoot itself sharply up Sherlock’s spine. That's not like him. He's never acted like this before. The world suddenly slides slightly out of focus.

_Something's not right._  

He bites down heavily on his lower lip and clasps his hands together to stop them from shaking. Panic starting to rise higher and higher in his chest until it begins to engulf his body like a forest fire. Adrenaline kicks in. His brain cranks itself up to fifth gear. He pulls Redbeard’s face hurriedly towards him and looks into his eyes, a feeling of sheer _dread_ setting in as he realises the light is fading rapidly from the pupils looking back at him. 

This  _ cannot _ be happening.

“MUM?”

Sherlock turns and yells in the direction of the house, but no one comes out to answer his cries, so after a minute he gives up and tries to lift Redbeard up to the door himself. It's a ridiculous strain, but eventually he does it. Cradling his only friend in his arms as heaves them both up the steep stones steps.

“Mum!” His voice echoes on the walls as he comes crashing through the door, “There’s something wrong with Redbeard, I think he’s ill, he’s-“

The kitchen is empty, and more to the fact, the  _ house _ is.

“What…“ 

Sherlock heaves Redbeard up a little higher in his arms and is already moving past the kitchen table towards the hallway when a scrawled note on the blackboard catches his eye.

_ ‘Gone out. Will be back later, not sure when.’ _

_ Oh. _

Sherlock places Redbeard down carefully on the table and dashes frantically for the house phone. He dials both their numbers and listens as they ring out twice. Typical. 

_Stay calm._ He tries to tell himself. _Figure out what to do._

But he _can't._ His mind has abruptly gone blank. Panic is closing his throat over. Tears clouding his vision. He’s shaking, crying, and trying desperately to stop himself from hyperventilating. He _needs_ to focus. To breathe. To channel his energy to his brain and stop this from happening. If he doesn't, the consequence is  unimaginable. 

_ Think. Think. Think. THINK! _

He shoves his head in his hands and rubs his fingers at his temples.

There is another number.

He could try it, he knows it off by heart.

It’s hardly the best option though. In fact, it really is a last resort.

“Mycroft?”

There’s a lot of rustling on the end of the phone and what sounds like the beat of loud music.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock tries again, “ _ Please _ answer this is an emergency.”

There’s a few more muffled noises before the deep sound of Mycroft’s voice suddenly emerges through the bad reception.

“Sherlock?” The older Holmes replies in an irritated tone, “I  _ told  _ you not to keep ringing me while I’m at-“

“Mycroft listen!” Sherlock interrupts fiercely, “Redbeard’s ill, he’s hardly breathing and I don’t know what to do. Mummy and Daddy aren’t answering and I’m home alone and-“ His voice cracks as he breaks off into a high-pitched sob. Hot unstoppable tears breaking free and streaming down his cheeks.

There is a short pause. Maybe only a second. But Sherlock can tell that Mycroft is really listening now, his hand covering his ear as he leans forward and blocks out the rowdy bustle of his surroundings. He draws a quick breath, voice suddenly steady and serious.

“Oh god. Ok, stay where you are Sherlock, I’ll be there in ten. Stay with him.”

It’s another promise broken, because, he doesn’t get back in time.

  
  
  


 

***

  
  
  


 

Jim is twelve when two men dressed in smart suits and shiny black shoes come knocking at the door.

He sits up like a meerkat from where he’s crouched on their tatty excuse for a sofa. Father simply grunts angrily from his chair and shoots Jim a ‘ _ if this is your fault then you’re dead’  _ look before getting up and heaving himself down the corridor to the door.

Jim holds his breath as father's heavy footsteps plod nearer and nearer. They  _ never _ get visitors, and that one time Auntie Lou came round didn't end well.

The door creaks loudly as it’s pulled open. Jim hops off the sofa and sneaks along to the hallway. He decides to hide behind the corner and listen silently, his body pressed against the wall.

“Mr Crawley?” The voice that speaks is a young, well-educated one. “Hello, we’re just here to-”

“What do you fucking want?” Father spits the words as if he’s shooing away a stray dog on the street. His tone  already aggressive and threatening . Jim feels himself unconsciously shrinking backwards.

“We’ve been sent by the council from the department of social services. We were just wondering if we could have a chat with James?”

“James?” Jim imagines the fat hulk of his father scowling as he adjusts his greasy white vest top over his belly. “His name is Jim, and he’s not here so do me a favour, get off my doorstep and piss off!”

There's a bang which Jim guesses is his father trying to slam the door in their faces, but something, maybe a foot or an elbow, stops it.

“Then would you mind telling me where he is?” The stranger asks again, still managing to maintain his polite tone, although Jim notices a firmness to it now. Really, underneath, the question sounded like an order.

There’s a short silence.

“It's none of your business.”

“Look, Jason.” The gentle voice takes a small breath before continuing. “I know he’s in there. Just let us in for a little chat ok? Five minutes.”

“Err,” Jim pictures father slouching against the wall and running his fat tar-covered fingers through his greasy mop of hair. It's after three in the afternoon and he’s already been blind drunk for a couple of hours. They’ve caught him at a good time. He’s weak, tired, and possibly lacking the stamina for this. “He won't want to speak to you.” He finally huffs.

“Right, well.” The stranger's voice suddenly changes in a heartbeat. “I think I’ll decide that for myself, thank you.”

There’s a thud as the man, followed shortly by his accomplice, barge through the door, past father, and start to storm down the cramped hallway.

“Oi!” Father roars. “What the- you can't do that! I didn't say you could-”

The man ignores him and moves swiftly down the hallway, he turns the corner faster than Jim can react and-

“Oh, hello.”

The stranger bends down to Jim’s level, and Jim can’t help but think how strikingly out of place his black suit looks against the peeling yellow wallpaper. “You must be James.” He holds his hand out in Jim’s direction.

Jim’s face remains blank.

“Ok.” The man smiles and withdraws his arm. “That’s ok. Why don't you show me to the living room?”

Father is kept temporarily at bay by the other man barricading him in the hallway and asking him forward questions. They're already speaking in raised voices and swearing unforgivably. Jim gives it roughly two minutes before someone gets hurt.

“He’s my son, and I’ll say what's best for him you jumped up little shi-”

The shouting from outside becomes muffled as they enter the flat’s cramped substitute of a lounge. The stranger pulls the door closed quietly behind them.

“So, James,” The man plonks himself down on the sofa and indicates for Jim to sit in the space next to him. “How are you?”

Jim sits and stares at his fingers.

“Not much of a talker then eh?” The man winces as there’s a thud from outside but his voice remains smooth. “That's okay. When I was your age I wasn't much of a talker either, maybe you could just nod when I ask a question, for example, one nod for yes, and a slight shake or your head for no, would that be alright?”

Jim is nodding before he even realises what he's doing.

“Good.” The man's face lights up and he smiles softly. “That's very good. Well, first of all my name is William - but you can call me Will - and I just wanted to talk to you about those bruises on your arm, did they...”

Will smiles enthusiastically and jots things down on his notepad while Jim nods or shakes his head. Normally, Jim wouldn’t dare  _ do  _ or say  _ anything _ , not even look the man in the eye, but, there's just something about Will’s tone of voice. The way he smiles and jokes, that makes Jim  _ want _ to please him. And besides, judging by the extraordinary amount of noise that's  coming from the hallway, he expects father is probably going to slaughter him when the men leave anyway.

It seems this time he’s got nothing left to lose.

They talk for approximately one minute and forty-five seconds before the commotion outside simply becomes impossible to ignore. There’s swearing, punching, and William’s colleague has started to call for back-up.

“You should help him.” Jim whispers, and for a brief second a look of surprise flickers over Will’s face, as it’s the first time Jim has actually spoken since the pair arrived. 

“You know what,” Will sighs, narrowing his eyebrows anxiously. “I think I might. But stay here ok? I’ve got enough evidence and I’m going to get you out.” He pauses, leans in a bit closer. “You do want that, don’t you?”

Jim takes a final, fleeting glance around the flat. It’s all he’s ever known, with its rotting Chinese leftovers and mouldy red carpet. He doesn't understand much of the world that surrounds him, but one thing he does  know is that he won’t miss it. Not the constant stink of cigarettes and dope, nor the grime in the bathroom, or the neighbours who constantly play their music too loud. Not even his cupboard of a bedroom, with the one thing he does treasure - a torn photograph of his mother - is enough to make him stay.

He dips his head slightly, and Will reaches out and squeezes his shoulder in understanding. He stands before pressing a button on his radio - a distress signal no doubt.

“Stay here.” He repeats, “And if anything gets hairy then don’t forget to hide okay? I’m sure you’re good at that.” 

He winks once, takes a breath, and then disappears through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you for reading. I hope the first part didn't upset you too much...  
> Feel free to leave your thoughts!  
> Updates on my writing can be found at @221bsherlockfandom_ on Instagram.


	3. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers he's about to get sent to boarding school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry this one isn't very long at all. I thought I'd just get stuff out there as soon as it's finished instead of worrying too much about the structure, otherwise we might be here forever! This is more angst sorry. Enjoy!

Sherlock is thirteen when his parents take him out of secondary school and pack him off to some ridiculously far-away boarding school. 

It wasn't his decision. He doesn't want to go, leave home. It means seeing Mycroft even  _ less _ , although now he’s at to university, and only bothers coming home for the odd weekend or at Christmas. Even then he doesn’t actually  _ stay  _ in the house. He’s always out at dinner parties or in the library doing work. An actual adult now with actual responsibilities.

Definitely too old to play games. 

The idea of the boarding school creeps in slowly, silently. Like a cheetah closing in on prey or gas spilling out into an enclosed room. It comes from all corners, all exits. It was hard to notice at first, and then impossible to diagnose. But it was always there. Building up over months, ever since the day Redbeard died. A gradual sense of dread. Lurking in the back of his mind, screaming in the darkness as soon as he closed his eyes. 

Because, soon after Redbeard died, Mother and Father started saying things. All the time.

They ask why Sherlock doesn't have any friends over, why he hardly goes out anymore, not even to the garden. They say that he needs to be sociable, experience some proper discipline and routine. They tell him he has a bad attitude. Insist he’s been spoilt and that he needs to try harder to get along with other people.

And that’s when Sherlock realises that they’ll never understand him, not like Mycroft did, because, he’s never been very good at that.

The narky comments and hour-long lectures stack up until one Friday evening Father finally loses it and suggests a boarding school. Even Mycroft looks up from his vegetables and widens his eyes. To be honest it’s a miracle that he’s even home this weekend to eat dinner with them.

Sherlock knew it was coming, of course he did, but for some reason the suggestion still arrives like a smack in the face. A heavy weight that drops right through his stomach, putting pressure on his lungs. He suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe. 

A cold silence spreads across the dinner table.

Sherlock drops his fork and lets his eyes bore into his plate of food. He can feel everyone’s gaze on him, intensifying the pressure. It's like a gas canister lying beside a fire, the explosion is inevitable. A feeling of dread floods through him, cold and sharp, like a knife twisting in his stomach, cutting him from the inside out. He has to focus very hard to make sure air continues to pass through his windpipe. 

Mycroft’s anxious gaze feels the strongest of all.  

“Father,” The older Holmes begins. 

Sherlock feels a small flicker of hope ignite inside him. Maybe Mycroft might be able to sway them. He clearly thinks it’s a bad idea, _knows_ so, it’s written all over face. Perhaps if he said something they’d change their minds. They listen to him - sometimes. 

But his brother has fallen silent as abruptly as he began, and retreated back to twiddling his fingers nervously in front of him.  

“Mycroft!” Sherlock hisses under his breath, blinking past the tears clouding his vision and looking up expectantly to his brother. But it's not enough, and he finalises his plea with a sharp kick under the table.  

“Urhm,” Mycroft covers his surprise by clearing his throat. There's a moment of silence. A pause as he hesitates and straightens the burgundy napkin at his neck. “Father, if I may, I’m not sure that would be the best solution to Sherlock’s behaviour-"

“And why is that?” Father fires a cold glare in Mycroft’s direction. It’s a look of ice, a clean blow, enough on its own to shut him up.

Mycroft swallows. 

Father solidifies his victory by smiling falsely and turning his attention back to Sherlock. “I think it is a great idea Sherlock, you’ll make friends and learn to study properly. No more of this staying in the house all the time and moping over Redbeard rubbish.” 

“But I don’t want to go.” Sherlock mumbles, still pleading desperately with his eyes for Mycroft to object. 

“Nonsense.” Father lets out a chilling laugh, so cold that it seems to make everyone in the room shiver. “I went to boarding school and it straightened me out. It’ll be good for you. I’ve researched a place up north, it’s a bit old-fashioned, out in the country and…”

Father’s voice becomes a dull blur in the back of Sherlock’s head as he watches Mycroft pick up his wine glass and swirl it around lazily in front of him. He can't help but twitch as his brother refuses to make eye contact, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the plate of roast beef in front of him. 

How could he?

And just like that, something clicks. Sherlock can’t take this, being sent away. Because that really would be it. There’d be no more books, no more lying around endlessly in bed. He wouldn't be able to walk down to the woods on Sundays or meet up secretly to study birds with Fredrick. There'd be no more peeking at the male models in mothers’ magazines when no one was in. It would be strict, disciplined, controlled. There'd be homework, rules. They were about to snatch away his freedom! 

He glances back up to the only person that has ever truly understood him. The only person who knows about all those things, and accepts them. He can’t  _ believe  _ Mycroft  isn't going to stick up for him and speak his mind. That he’s just going to let Sherlock be taken away like some prisoner and be jailed against his will. 

His fists clench involuntarily. There's no hesitation this time, and he lifts up his foot and kicks Mycroft under the table again, much harder than before.

“Actually,” Mycroft suddenly announces, a new-found sharpness in his voice. “I think it’s a great idea. When will he start?” He places his wine glass down firmly on the table and  _ finally  _ dares to look Sherlock in the eye.

It feels as if he's just fallen from a cliff. 

A whole range of emotions sweep through Sherlock's body in a matter of seconds, but the one that settles is anger. 

Pure, fiery hot,  _ dangerous  _ anger. 

Hatred spreads within him like a black poison. 

That’s it. He’ll never forgive Mycroft for this. 

Ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again this was short, the next chapter should be pretty long to make up for it - I'll try and get it done soon. I really hope you liked my writing. As always any feedback is enormously appreciated.


End file.
